Chapter Six #2
We finish moving the hay in silence, the easy partnership from earlier replaced by careful politeness.
She won’t meet my eyes, and I find myself cataloging the ways she avoids getting too close—passing tools at arm’s length, walking wide paths around me, keeping busy with tasks that don’t require coordination.
By late afternoon, we’ve done everything possible to secure the property and returned from town with enough food to feed either an entire Roman legion or one pot-bellied pig.
The animals are sheltered, supplies stocked, and extra bedding distributed.
The cabin looks like a fortress ready to weather whatever nature throws at us.
But the real storm isn’t the one approaching from the west.
It’s the one we just unleashed between us, and I have no idea how to navigate it.
The first snowflakes start falling as we finish our final check of the animals. Wet, heavy flakes that mean business, sticking to the ground immediately instead of melting on contact.
“It’s starting,” Laney observes unnecessarily, pulling her hood up against the increasing wind.
“And it’s moving fast.” I check my weather app quickly in case we lose reliable service. “Temperature’s dropping quicker than predicted.”
“The animals should be fine in the barn; they’re built for cold weather. But we’ll have to keep them in thick, clean bedding and check on them regularly.”
Back inside the cabin, heat and lamplight wrap around us. We stack supplies, make a quick pot of soup, and run through the checklist one more time. Two hours pass in the soft clatter of dishes and the ebb and flow of the wind. When the lights flicker, we both freeze.
“That’s not good,” she says.
Another gust of wind hits the cabin hard enough to rattle the windows. Laney glances at the clock, then toward the barn.
“First check-in,” she says, voice firm. “Let’s make sure everyone’s settled for the night.”
I pull on my heaviest coat and grab a flashlight.
“I’ll take the east side; you take the west?” Her tone brooks no argument, and she’s already zipping her parka.
“Laney, you don’t need to—”
“Yes, I do.” She lifts her chin in defiance. “They’re my responsibility.”
The storm hits us like a physical force the moment we step outside. Snow drives horizontally across the yard, and the wind is strong enough that I have to steady Laney when she stumbles. The thirty-yard walk to the barn feels like a mile.
Inside, the animals are restless and scared. Napoleon has his hens gathered close, Bonnie and Clyde are pressed together in their corner, and the boarded dogs curl into their bedded runs in the insulated kennel bay, noses tucked, blankets doubled against the draft.
“It’s getting cold in here,” I observe, watching the animals. “I’ve been in LA for most of my life, but if this mountain weather is anything like An’Wa, these animals are going to need extra protection.”
“More bedding,” Laney says, already moving toward the hay storage. “We need to add as much insulation as we can before it gets worse.”
We work quickly, spreading extra hay and blankets in all the animal areas. The additional bedding will help them retain body heat, and I can see some relief in Laney’s expression as we create warmer nests for everyone.
“They’ll huddle together naturally,” I say, watching Bonnie and Clyde press closer. “Body heat sharing.”
“Jasper’s terrarium is in the living room, but if we lose power, we’ll need to move him somewhere even warmer—maybe the bedroom where the insulation is better.” She pauses, looking around at the larger animals. “But Napoleon, the hens, and the goats should be fine here with all the extra bedding.”
The wind chooses that moment to hit the barn with enough force to make the whole structure groan, and several animals cry out in alarm. Dust sifts from the rafters in a thin veil, and a cold thread of snow snakes under the threshold like the storm is testing every seam.
“And we’ll have to check on them every few hours,” Laney adds. “Make sure everyone’s staying warm and no one’s in distress.”
This isn’t the manageable storm we prepared for. This is something bigger, meaner, and potentially dangerous for every living thing caught in its path.
Including us.
“We need to move fast,” I say. “Before this gets any worse.” Because the way the wind is building, the way the temperature is plummeting, I have a sinking feeling that ‘worse’ is exactly where we’re headed.
Back at the cabin, we hurry inside with our arms full of supplies. As we stamp snow off our boots and set everything down, the lights flicker again—longer this time, more ominous.
“We should set out the oil lamps,” I suggest, already moving toward where we’ve gathered them on the kitchen counter. “Just in case—”
As if summoned by my words, the power cuts out entirely, plunging us into the gray half-light of approaching dusk.
The silence feels sudden and complete—no humming appliances, no background noise of modern life.
Just wind and the soft sounds of animals settling in for what’s clearly going to be a very long night.